Yes, I love the show “ER” – and I’ve even mentioned it before here. The show has lots of drama, not only because of the variety and intensity of the emergency-room cases they present, but because of the lives of the characters we see developed. However, that’s not what this little essay is about. What I’d like to talk about now is my personal experience of the emergency room. My most recent exposure was just a couple of days ago – and I’ll get to that in a little bit.

First, a little history.

Probably the most interesting emergency-room time I had was the night I passed a kidney stone, but was nonetheless diagnosed with bladder cancer by the young (Doogie-Howser-looking) ER doc and the on-call urologist he consulted with. That episode lasted from dusk till dawn, and the crisis passed a couple of days later when tests showed that I did not have cancer. While I felt mostly well-cared-for that night (Katrina was with me, and she was certainly a great comfort to have around; and I had a wonderful nurse), Doogie's behavior was pretty amazingly terrible, as I recall. As he was initially delivering the bad news to me, he was talking in a soft voice, and walking backwards away from me toward the door, while using medical terminology obviously intended to obfuscate. I believe he just tried to slip that little word “carcinoma” right by me, thinking I might not notice (or know what it meant). Basically, both doctors that night came up far short in terms of getting a good review from me.

A couple of other ER experiences stick out in my mind as well. Neither were quite as bad as the one just described, thank goodness. They were drama-packed in their own right, though. One was an “urgent care” facility that we took Katrina to when she was suffering from a rupturing appendix. Although the tests were not definitive, the surgeon who was called in was right on the money in terms of a diagnosis, and the surgery the next day, I think, went mostly ok (of course, I’m not the one who had to go through it, and there was a tough post-operative period). The other episode was here in Portland four days after I moved up from Eugene in 2004. I took a fall on the pavement while walking the unfamiliar hilly streets in the Mt. Tabor neighborhood, and ended up spending almost another entire night being attended to. That I complained of “chest pain” at the front desk probably got me some special attention, I imagine.

So, now we come to my most recent visit.

I developed an early-morning nosebleed two days ago while I was in the shower. At some point I looked down and the water in the bottom of the tub was curiously pink. After I figured out what was going on, it took me almost a full hour and a half to get the bleeding under control. Given that I have had a history of nosebleeds (for me, they come with allergy territory), I have some experience in this area, so when it took that long to control I was, well, concerned. During the time I was trying to stop the bleeding, I had images of somebody, someday eventually finding me naked and dead on the bathroom floor, bled out from the nose. Not a pretty picture. And, all the while this was going on, the room started to look more and more like a crime scene. Again, rather ugly.

Well, I did get the bleeding to stop. Finally. I called my doctor’s office (it was right about 8:00 a.m. at that time), and they said if I wanted to see somebody, go to the emergency room. I drove myself, of course, all the time hoping I wouldn’t start bleeding again!

OK: I admit. This time when I visited the ER, it wasn’t quite in the category of emergency. It certainly had felt like it earlier in the morning, but by the time I got to the hospital, the situation was fairly tame. And, I guess, from an ER doc’s perspective, well, “this is a pretty uninteresting situation here.”

I had quite some time in the waiting area, and then in the little examination room I was finally shown. The nurse who checked me in was quiet but efficient. I appreciated that. After about a half hour in the examination room (I was passing time reading the morning’s paper), a young woman finally came in, introduced herself as a med student, and said that since no one else was attending to me, she thought she’d keep me company and familiarize herself with my case. She sat down, asked questions, took notes, and listened. She was pretty great, actually. After about five minutes, though, the “real” ER doc came in and took over. At that point, the med student seemed to rush away. I was sorry to see her go; it was about the only time I felt really listened to during the rest of my experience there. Not that I didn’t get attention; my nose was cauterized and packed with gauze and I had the name of a specialist to follow up with. But, during most of my time there, I believe I was an “issue” not a person. I was “the nosebleed in 4” – wow, that was not a great feeling.

Later that same day, my nose started bleeding again…I felt it happen, and, in the mirror, watched the gauze change color from white to pink. I drove to the ER again. I was bleeding when I showed up, but I still had a half-hour to wait before they called my name. During that time, sitting in public view in the waiting room, pinching my nose and swabbing my face with Kleenex, no one at the desk seemed to be overly concerned. Again, I suppose I was “just a nosebleed.” When I finally got in to see the second doc, and since the bleeding had stopped, he did nothing. In fact, was very dismissive (like: why are you here?), and didn’t even really get any of his attention until I said something like, “well, I can see that I’m not being taken seriously here.” As it turned out, all he would do was reinforce the notion that the ER had done what they could (contained the emergency and referred me on). I left with wet bloody gauze in my nose and no hope of getting it looked at again until Monday (four days away).

Well, I knew there was no way that I was going to make it that long with gauze in my nose. I just knew. (A thought validated after a sleepless night that night, not being able to breathe.) Yesterday, I removed the gauze myself, and now I seem to be doing fine.

I don’t think I’ll be remembering this episode too favorably…except for the med student who took some time to listen. Even though I was “just a nosebleed,” she saw me as a person as well...and what a difference that makes!

I guess if you’ve been paying attention, you’ve noticed that most of the photos I’ve posted recently have been of signs. Signs, signs, wherever I look. Big signs, small signs, commercial signs, hand-made signs; advertising, promoting, accusing, demanding. They’re everywhere!

So, I’m thinking: aren’t there signs made not of solid matter, but rather more like “signals from the universe”?

What’s going on? There are “signs” in my life that seem to be pointing in a positive direction. And it’s happening rather all of a sudden. I had those two interviews the week before last (and I’m still waiting to hear back about results and/or next steps). Now, as of this afternoon, I have three more scheduled in the next three weeks: for an associate dean position (Salem, OR), a vice president position (Aberdeen, WA), and a vice chancellor position (San Mateo, CA). The latter is with the San Mateo County Community College District (Bay Area), the place where I came in a close second for a dean’s position during fall term (and where I made a good impression and some friends, I think).

With all this interviewing activity, aren’t the chances pretty good that there will be some place that will fit? (One would think…!)

I’m choosing to believe that all these invitations are a good sign.

And it certainly feels better to be popular than not!

Soundtrack Suggestion

And the sign said “Long-haired freaky people need not apply”
So I tucked my hair up under my hat and I went in to ask him why
He said “You look like a fine upstanding young man, I think you’ll do”
So I took off my hat, I said “Imagine that. Huh! Me workin’ for you!”
Whoa-oh-oh

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign
Blockin’ out the scenery, breakin’ my mind
Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?

(“Signs” – Five Man Electrical Band)

“Spring in the world!
And all things are made new!”
(Richard Hovey)

This is the week of spring break, or at least it’s the week of our spring break here in Oregon (for the public colleges and universities, that is). Not all colleges in the country take a break at the same time, of course: the sunny vacation spots and airlines couldn’t handle it! This time of year certainly makes me think of taking a trip – namely one for fun and not one where I’m someplace merely to interview. Two years ago in March, I took a day trip to the Oregon coast and visited Mo’s (see above) in Newport. I also made another trip that month up to Bellingham, WA, during spring break week and had a spectacularly good time there, on the ferry ride, and in Port Townsend.

Typically, too, during this time of the year, I try and attend to the “spring cleaning” ritual. I clean house more thoroughly than I normally do, the car gets special attention, and, now that I’m in living in a house, I decide what to do with the yard.

This year, all that seems so senseless. The sale of the house closes this week, I’m told, and I will have a new landlord I have never met and whose name I do not even know. What is constantly in my awareness is that I need to vacate these premises by the end of June.

Why put any effort into cleaning right now at all? There’s no reason, actually, so I guess this place will just get dirtier and messier until it’s time to for me to pack up and leave. It’s not the way I’m inclined to live, but there are just so many more important things to pay attention to at the moment.

Maybe we all should be thinking of other, larger-scale tasks, instead. Let’s bring some newness to the world by making it a better place?

● By removing the troops from Iraq and Afghanistan?

● By sweeping the likes of Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld from the West Wing and the Pentagon?

● By upgrading voting machines in places like Florida and Ohio?

● By replacing the current occupants of various statehouses with more effective ones?

● By building voter confidence in government enough so that tax measures would/could be passed that are adequate to meet state and local needs?

Yes, there are lots of ways that this season of renewal could be used. How about some fragrant blossoms of universal peace and enlightenment?

I believe I have taken a picture of this sign at the Oregon Country Fair every year I’ve been there. I love its color and texture. Will I have a schedule allowing my attendance there this summer?

I wonder what life is to bring me in the next few months. I have a temporary job and am furiously looking for a new one. My rental house is being sold out from under me. I have experienced rejection and displacement. I must find my way away from here, but what that means, exactly, I don’t know.

Right now, it seems that my total focus is looking for work. (Some might argue that blogging is right up there on my priority list, too.) The actual process of seeking a different domicile has not yet commenced, as I hope to combine that with a new job and city. I spend weekends preparing job applications, and every single vacation day doing interviews. My expanding list of physical symptoms of stress have led to regular doctor appointments, and now even more-frequent acupuncture treatments.

The scariest physical symptom I’ve experienced, so far, is the development, ten months ago, of tingling and numbness in my left foot and toes. If one can give any credence to the “illness as metaphor” perspective, then what interpretation might apply here?

I am numbed-out? I am unfeeling? Part of me is asleep? I am frozen? I am burning up inside? Part of me is dead? I am damaged? My nerves are frazzled? I’ve taken a misstep? I need to tread lightly? I need to walk away? I’ve stretched myself too far? I have a hole in my sole (soul)? I need to realign my qi? I need to find someplace warmer? I need someone to give me a foot massage?

What can this possibly be about?

To mark the occasion of the third anniversary of the U.S. invasion of Iraq, two days ago I was part of a contingent of approximately ten thousand who gathered in downtown Portland on a bright, sunny, spring-like Sunday afternoon to rally for peace. It was the largest demonstration I had ever been part of.

I admit that I use the term “rally for peace” quite purposefully. To label this a “war protest” would be a mischaracterization, I believe.

Let me elaborate...

I lived through the Sixties. (And, yes, I actually remember them.) As a young man who turned the draft-eligible age of 18 in 1965, I knew that, quite literally, my life was on the line with practically every personal decision. After high school, I made the choice to go to college – admittedly as much to earn a student deferment as an education.

College campuses then were much different than they are today, and often known for their level of anti-war activity. Students – we – knew what war was, were able to view its horrors on television every evening, and (the males at least) were acutely aware of the fate that awaited us should we cease to be students. Campuses were home for “the movement.”

And, by the time this massive social movement generated most of its heat, in the late Sixties and early Seventies, organized protests were serious, intensely-emotional experiences. Thousands and thousands of young American men had lost their lives, and there seemed to be no end to the slaughter. We, the country, increasingly (yes, I know, it took several years, and it was never a consensus view) deemed Vietnam an unjust war, entered in to illegally, and perpetuated by leaders who lied to the country about its origin and purpose. And, no exit strategy was in sight.

(My, how times have changed, eh?)

Candidate Richard Nixon’s “secret plan to end the war” was seductive, and served to dupe the electorate enough to get him elected President in 1968. But, of course, there was no such plan, and by November 1969, protests reached massive proportions; a march on Washington, D.C., (the largest ever, I believe) that month attracted over 250,000 emotional, highly-motivated participants. Then, on May 4, 1970, four students were killed at Kent State University as they raised their voices in opposition to Nixon’s decision to invade Vietnam’s neighbor, Cambodia.

The demonstrations I participated in, in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and Corvallis, Oregon, were less dramatic than those, but still, certainly, intense. For example, I remember standing, for the most of one entire night, outside the county courthouse in Eau Claire listening to the reading of the names of war dead. And, even in sleepy, conservative Corvallis, I witnessed acts of civil disobedience during this period.

My point is: the anti-war movement, back then, involved actual protest. My sense of what goes on now, and, regrettably how I experienced the event on Sunday, was that we (and I’ll include myself) engaged in a social gathering as much as a “protest.” Yes, it was a rally. Yes, there were speeches and inflammatory rhetoric. Yes, there were placards with serious messages, some of them quite outrageous and irreverent. Yes, there were marching and chanting. (“What do we want? PEACE! When do we want it? NOW!”) Yes, there was plenty of that typical protest-like activity.

But, did the event seem oriented toward effecting change? To me: no. It simply didn’t have that feel. Rather, it reminded me of a retro theme party. There were many, many of us (yes, again, I’m guilty) with still- and video-cameras, engaged in a party-picture kind of enterprise, posing for photos, while with friends and/or holding signs. There were families and others congregated into small groups. There were dogs and Frisbees. There were information tables and pamphlets. There were commercially-made flags and other artifacts, likely ordered from internet sources. And everyone had a cell phone. Geeesssh.

OK: bottom line, here’s what I miss. The outrage. I want us, the American people, collectively, to be incredibly angry about the meaningless large-scale loss of life in a part of the world where we really have no legitimate business. I want us to be incensed about the erosion of our civil liberties. I want to hear of our insistence on being told the truth. I want a gathering of this magnitude to mean something: to be acknowledged as part of a nationwide effort to change the direction of the morally-bankrupt regime in, and agenda that we now have coming from, Washington, D. C.

I want peace. And, I want it now.